


for the restless

by lady_krysis (saekhwa)



Series: This Song's For You [2]
Category: The Losers (2010)
Genre: AU - Military School, Backstory, Community: ante_up_losers, Gift Fic, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-06
Updated: 2012-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-29 01:56:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/314580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saekhwa/pseuds/lady_krysis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Military school is for brats, delinquents and troubled youth. All Jensen did was change everyone's grades because his teacher was a jerk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	for the restless

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zillah975](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zillah975/gifts).



> Titles shamelessly taken from Tom McRae's song "For the Restless."

Jensen's got a tic — an eye spasm in his left eyelid — and he can't stop shaking his leg. Tap, tap, tap. Jake, Jake, Jake.

He kicks the desk and says, "Jensen. Call me Jensen." This is the fifth or sixth time he's said it, and he's pissed that he has to repeat himself.

"Then _Jensen_ ," his mom says and grabs his knee. She forces his leg _down_ and looks like she wants to kick the crap out of him. "Stop."

Stopped, Jensen folds his arms across his chest and hunches down in the seat. The jittery, nervous energy hopping around like the Road Runner in his stomach doesn't go away, though. It just keeps building speed until he's shaking his leg again, staring pointedly out the window at the perfectly manicured lawn while they call him Jake — after his dad — and smugly confirm that he'll be 'taken care of' and 'set straight.'

 _I'm not crooked_ , Jensen wants to say, but he keeps his mouth resolutely shut. He risks a glance at the sergeant, all straight-backed in his seat. He bets the guy doesn't even know what 'resolute' means.

~*~

"But—" Liz sniffs, eyes wide and wet-looking as she tugs on Jensen's pants. " _Why_?" she asks for the millionth time.

"Because," Jensen says, like he's said the last seventy billion times.

"But—"

" _Because_ , Liz." Because dad's a jerk-wad _dill hole_ and apparently, so am I. He shoves the rest of his clothes into the suitcase, zips it shut and doesn't shake Liz off when she buries her wet face into his side. He sinks a hand into her hair and hugs her.

They don't move until mom comes to get him, and she can't answer Liz's question any better than he can.

~*~

 _Military school._ What the _hell_? Jensen wants to ask, but he stays tight-lipped and stoic.

"Jak—Jensen." His mom grabs his shoulder, fingers digging in like she doesn't want to let him go. Jensen avoids looking at her face. No way, he tells himself. _No freaking way._ They stand there like that for way too long, past the point where Jensen can stay still, and he starts tapping his foot, shoulders hunched, arms folded across his chest. His mother jerks on his shirt. He's already off balance so he falls. He's too tall for this, too _old_ , but she cups his cheek and pulls him down anyway. Her lips press firm to his right cheek. Great. He's going to get ragged by everyone now. "I love you."

"Yeah—" Jensen tries to pull away.

"I _love you_ ," his mom repeats, not letting go. "This will be good for you."

"Sure, mom." Jensen scrubs at his cheek and hopes the lipstick stain isn't there. "Whatever."

His mom wipes away the rest with her thumb — and thank god she doesn't spit on it first — and then lets him go with a soft, "Call me, okay? Any time—"

Jensen doesn't hear the rest and doesn't let himself run back. He's screwed up one too many times for that. Just like the old man, Jensen. Great.

~*~

Jensen counts it as a small victory when he doesn't get yelled at the moment he walks through the door. He's heard stories. Military school is for brats, delinquents and troubled youth. It's not even like what he did was all that bad. He only changed everyone's grade because Mr. Wattlebee was a jerk. How was he supposed to know that Ted was a snitch?

The physical sucks, and it sucks even more after the eye exam because seriously?

"I don't need glasses."

"Actually you do," the nurse lady says. "You've needed them for a while. You'll have to call your mother about getting a prescription, and I advise that you sit at the front of the class."

~*~

That night, Jensen calls his mom because he has to. "They say I need glasses."

"Glasses? Well. Okay. So how's—"

" _Not_ okay, mom. I don't need glasses."

"Jake, please." Her voice is soft and pained, and he bets she's already pinching the bridge of her nose. "They wouldn't lie about you needing glasses. It won't be so bad."

"I'm going to get laughed at."

"No one's going to laugh at you for wearing glasses." She sounds exasperated. Jensen knows the conversation is pretty much over. "Jake? You still there?"

"Jensen. And yeah, I am." Pause. Jensen doesn't know what to say other than to repeat that he doesn't need glasses. "How's Liz?"

"She's okay. She drew you a picture. I thought maybe I could mail it to you?" It's not supposed to be a question, but there's the lilt at the end of his mom's voice, always _asking_ , always _making sure_.

"I'd like that." Jensen presses his forehead against the wall and breathes out slowly, so his mom won't catch the sound.

"We miss you. We love you."

"Miss you, too." Jensen straightens when he sees some guys passing by. "Yeah, gotta go, mom. Talk to you later."

"Ja—" Click.

Jensen pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales again. Glasses. He doesn't _need_ glasses. This is so _stupid_. He kicks the wall.

~*~

It's six. In the morning. Six. _In the morning_.

Jensen can't jumpstart his brain before nine o'clock on a good day. He can't even see the _sun_ — and not because he needs glasses but because it's not in the freaking _sky_. He thinks, _This is the worst of it_ , up until some blowhard marches up and down and tells them the how-to of their day. Jensen can't wrap his mind around having to wake up at six every morning before he's getting shuffled to the bathrooms—latrines. _Whatever_.

At least breakfast isn't too bad, even though he's having a hard time getting the cereal to actually go into his mouth because his body won't stop asking, _Why the hell are we awake?_ And dude, Jensen has _no_ idea.

Then he faces the most grueling experience of his fourteen years of life: drills. He wants to _die_. He'll settle for going back to sleep if the guy will just let them _stop_. Jensen hates jogging and running and marching and all of this stupid stuff. He wants his room back and his comics and his books and his _stuff_.

All he gets is a lousy shower and then all the kids stuck in this joint get hustled to class. Jensen picks the next to last row and drops into one of the middle seats. It's perfect cover because he'll be surrounded by enough students that the teacher — sergeant? captain? _whatever_ — won't notice his head on the desk. He's small enough he can hide and take a nap, and maybe he'll wake up and this nightmare will be over.

"Jake Jensen."

Jensen raises his hand with a flippant, "Here," and is ready to pillow his head on his arms and doze.

Except the teacher is staring at him and giving him one of those shrewd looks like he's sizing Jensen up. It makes Jensen want to sink further down in his seat and melt into the floor.

"You'll be sitting at the front for the duration of the term."

Jensen stares at the seat. Right at the front of the class. "I'm, uh, fine here, thanks."

The guy gives a good arched eyebrow and has a poker face like nobody's business. Jensen can't really tell if it's a, 'you little brat' look or 'your life is in my hands, you little turd' look. "To the front, cadet."

Jensen tries not to shift uncomfortably in his seat because now everyone is staring at him, probably taking bets on what he's going to do. The answer is pretty simple. He goes to the front and slumps down into his new seat. He's not the only one reassigned but that doesn't eliminate the sharp, irritating prickle at the back of his neck.

~*~

His glasses come a week later, and he's still not _settled_. A week in, he's earning demerits for the hell of it because _breathing_ is an infraction. Jensen stares at his mom's note, reads it over and over as if his glasses will somehow mysteriously disappear in that span of time. When he sets the note aside, his glasses are still there. With a sigh, he pulls them out of the hard case and stares at them. Wire frames. Geeky.

"Portholes, Jensen?" Followed by laughter and probably elbow jabbing.

So it begins.

Jensen drops the glasses back in the case, snaps it closed and shoves it into his trunk.

~*~

"I have a headache," Jensen says, swinging his legs, eyes narrowed at the poster on the wall. The letters are so small that he can't read the road to enlightenment that he's sure is contained there.

"You're supposed to have glasses," the nurse says. She's sweet, but Jensen can't help but snort.

"I don't need 'em."

"You have headaches from eye strain. Is there a reason you prefer pain over the ability to see?"

Jensen shrugs. "Some people are into that. I read a magazine once—"

The nurse laughs — he probably should learn her name at some point — and shakes her head. "About asthenopia?" Jensen feels his brows furrow together. "It's an ophthalmological term for eye strain." She holds two aspirin in her open palm and a glass of water. "You should read up on it."

Never one to be one-upped, Jensen takes the pills and asks, "Asthenopia or ophthalmology?" He grins at the 'I'm impressed' arch of her eyebrow when the words roll off his tongue like butter. He is _smooth_.

"Both."

Jensen swallows the aspirin, takes another sip of water, and then nods. "Maybe I will."

~*~

The headaches — the _pain_ thing — really isn't Jensen's thing at all. He ends up wearing the stupid, geeky, porthole glasses.

He's sitting outside while the guys in his class play grab bag on the field. It takes several deep breaths before he screws up the courage, whips his glasses out, and shoves them onto his face. There's the immediate: _holy crap, I can_ see. And then the more immediate shock of: A _nd I'm seeing two guys kissing_.

Jensen moves to rub his eyes, knocks his knuckles into his glasses, and then hastily shoves them up his face to continue with the back-to-reality eye rubbing. He drops his glasses back down and frowns at the huge smear on the right lens. So he has to take his glasses off again and use his shirt to wipe them clean. Back on his face, and—

Nothing.

He looks around, pushing up to his feet to see if maybe they're behind a tree or ... something. But there's nothing. No one around except the guys getting in all their physical activity before lights out and Jensen standing there like a perv.

Right.

So he sits down and marvels at the wonders of the universe.

~*~

"When are you coming home?" Liz asks, voice so small, and Jensen falls for it, falls _on it_ , this broadsword called guilt.

"I dunno. Christmas, I guess."

"What about Thanksgiving?" Liz whines. "You have to come home for Thanksgiving. I'm making a pie."

Jensen snorts. "You don't know how to make a pie."

"Do, too. Mo-om! Jake—"

"Jensen," Jensen mutters, but Liz isn't paying attention, too busy tattling on him to mom.

"Okay, sweetie. Yes, Jake, Elizabeth is baking a pie for Thanksgiving." There's a lot of rustling over the phone, then a muffled, "Go play."

Jensen has to take a deep breath.

"Jake?"

 _Jensen, call me Jensen_ starts echoing in his head, loud and obnoxious and angry. "Yeah?"

"How's school?"

"It's school, mom. It's boring and stupid and everyone here—" Calling them boring and stupid doesn't really paint the whole boring, stupid picture that he's trying to convey, so he shuts his mouth and starts people watching.

"Are you making friends?"

"Tons," Jensen deadpans.

The line falls silent, and Jensen hopes to god he hasn't made his mom cry. He feels like a big freaking jerk right now. He straightens, hunching, straining to hear something over the line, about to tell his mom sorry, that of course everything is fine and she shouldn't worry.

"So." Her voice wavers. "What would you like for Thanksgiving?" Falsely bright.

"Uh." Jensen rubs the back of his neck. "Stuffing," he chokes out. "I'd, uh, really like stuffing this year."

"Sure, Jake. Whatever you want."

~*~

Reading glasses, Jensen tells himself. I just need these stupid things for reading. After his revelation, though, he feels like he's walking blind down the hall, everything fuzzy and soft around the edges, all the posters in the distance a blur. Ignorance, he thinks, had been bliss.

Which is probably why he's getting jostled, tipping over sideways, which is great. Just freaking great. He figures he's lucky, though. He survived three weeks before some jerk decided to pick on him.

So Jensen braces for collision, finds himself doing a stupid countdown and all. T-minus three before impact. Something grabs his backpack, yanking him back, the straps digging into his shoulders, and he tenses, eyes squeezed shut, hoping this isn't the momentum that's going to get him punched in the face.

"You okay?"

"Uhhhhh," Jensen says stupidly, brain stuck in the fast forward reel of getting beaten up.

"Hey." It's a different guy this time, probably the someone who's snapping his fingers in front of Jensen's face.

Jensen cracks open an eye to see if it's safe. First thing he sees is the snap of those fingers and follows the line of one big arm to a tall, broad-shouldered guy wearing a frown that's way too severe for someone in high school.

"Cadet." He twists his head to get a look at the second guy who seems to be the one who has hold of him. Also tall but with a more laid back expression.

"Yeah," Jensen says, and blinks, because he's a little surprised that it's true. "Yeah, I'm fine."

The guy grins. "Sorry about that," and dusts off Jensen's backpack.

"Clay." Jensen feels weird that he turns toward the sound of that voice, too, and uh, the guy doesn't look happy. "We're going to be late."

"We're not going to be late."

"We're always late."

"I'm, uh." The guy's name is Clay, and Jensen can't figure out what joke they're sharing in the slant of Clay's smile, but he definitely doesn't feel like he's getting laughed _at_ , so he says again, "I'm okay. Really."

Clay nods but doesn't leave just yet, gaze moving down Jensen like he's assessing that for himself. Jensen guesses he passes the inspection, 'cause they walk away while he stands there like an idiot, not sure what weird dimension he just walked into.

~*~

"What are these?" Liz giggles, and pokes one of Jensen's lenses, getting it smeared with flour and whatever else is on her dirty fingers. Gross.

"Glasses, duh." Jensen slips them off and uses her shirt to clean them.

"Ewwww!" Liz retaliates by wiping her palms down Jensen's face and then runs shrieking to mom.

"Okay, Elizabeth, okay!" His mom walks into the kitchen, and she looks exhausted, the bags under her eyes that special shade of no-sleep dark. "Jensen, please be nice to your sister."

Jensen really, _really_ wants to say, _Then tell her to be nice to me_ , but he's older and more mature, and uses his own shirt to wipe his face clean with a, "Yeah, whatever."

Thanksgiving is pretty boring, and the lecture he gets afterward about his demerits and glasses is the _worst_ , but Jensen doesn't say a word, except, "Yeah, I'll watch Liz," and a string of, "I know, mom, geez."

His mom kisses his cheek and then kisses Liz and heads to work, and Jensen flops on the couch.

"We're watching TV," he says.

Liz is fine until she realizes that he's not going to watch any of her dumb shows.

~*~

The holiday lasted just long enough for Jensen to miss home. He slouches into the cafeteria, mess hall, _whatever_ , and scans the room, not ever really sure what he's looking for but making a habit of it like he's taking the wide span shot in a movie.

What he's looking for, it seems, is Clay and his dark, brooding friend, Roque, who happen to be sitting at a table with the luxury view of the window.

Jensen slides into the seat next to Clay, 'cause he seems the friendliest, and proceeds to win them over with his great knowledge about everything. He talks about video games, cartoons, comics, his favorite brand of ice cream, has enough steam to even talk about how stupidly easy it was to hack into his school's grading system and tweak a few things, and hey, if they wanted the same perks and could find him a computer, he'd be game for the challenge again—

"Shut up," Roque says. It's so flat and said so softly that Jensen's mouth snaps shut. It's probably the first time someone hasn't yelled at him. He blinks at Roque, because he's startled by his own silence. Wow. His mom will probably want to bottle the magic that Roque just cast. "What do you want?"

Jensen clears his throat and then slumps forward, elbows on the table and his body hunched forward. "Look, I feel like I'm in a bad prison movie, and I need some friends. You guys seem like the"—biggest, most badass of them all—"coolest, so I thought, you know"—nonchalant shrug—"maybe."

They stare at him, and he stares back.

"Maybe what?" Clay prompts.

Uhhh. "Maybe we could be friends. You know, work together and stuff."

Clay and Roque share a look, and Jensen can take a hint. He's not invited to their shindig. Fine. Whatever. He plants his palms on the table and pushes up, but a hand in his shirt jerks him back down. Ow.

"You're not a team player," Clay says.

Jensen adjusts his glasses, but he knows he's fiddling, so he just looks at Clay, right in the eyes. "Maybe I haven't found the right team."

Apparently, it's the right answer. Jensen's good at those.

~*~

Jensen isn't a spy, but he can't help but notice things, and what he notices is Clay leaned against a wall, hand cupped around—Yep, a cigarette. Clay drops his head back, the smoke hanging limply from his lips, and he looks _relaxed_. Then Roque comes out of nowhere, grabs the cigarette and flicks it out. Seems dangerous, all things considered, and Clay looks pissed, fists clenched and jaw set.

Jensen nearly chokes when Roque jerks Clay forward and _kisses_ him, open-mouthed and wet, until Clay's fingers are curling into his shirt. And Jensen, Jensen who knows better, who promised himself he'd play it safe, can't take his eyes away from them. Not when Roque is growling something against Clay's mouth and Clay nods, leaning back against the wall.

 _Oh crap_. Jensen's throat closes tight when Roque sinks to his knees, and he can't believe he's _watching_ this, but he can't quite believe that it's happening either. This is—And _Clay_ , hips rolling, making Roque take more—And _Roque_ , on his _knees_ , bobbing his head like a porn star, or at least how Jensen imagines a porn star would do it, fast and hard. Which Jensen is. Hard. He palms his cock through his pants and has to bite his bottom lip against the moan threatening to tear up his throat. Whip it out or keep it in his pants and jack off in the bathroom? Decisions, decisions—

Clay moans, the sound cut short by his own hand, and Jensen can't make himself move because _holy mother of whatever powers that be_ , Clay is coming in Roque's _mouth_. And Jensen is coming in his pants.

~*~

"Jesus," Jensen says, eyes wide behind his glasses. "We're in a _military_ school." He tries to keep his voice down, but it sounds like a bunch of hissing, which is sure to draw the attention of the other kids. "DADT."

Clay's eyebrows come together, and Jensen shakes his head.

"DA—You know. Don't Ask—"

He gets shoved into the wall, Roque's hand fisted so tight in his shirt that he can't breathe. He kicks, weakly, more shocked than anything that his lungs aren't getting the oxygen they need.

"Gonna rat on us?" Roque says in a near-whisper.

Jensen frantically shakes his head, tugging uselessly at Roque's wrist. It's Clay who gets him to back off, though. A soft, low, "Roque."

Roque lets go, and Jensen slumps, knees too weak to hold him. He's tempted to keep going until his ass hits the ground, but Clay grabs his arm and hauls him back up.

"You okay?"

Jensen rubs his throat but nods. He doesn't feel like he has a choice to be anything _but_ okay. "Yeah." He swallows and stubbornly ignores the huge smudge on the left lens. "I'm good." Jensen scrubs a hand through his hair, feels the agitated tic of his leg starting up again, jittery and uncontrolled, but he clenches his fist and looks at Roque. Eye to eye. Mano y mano. "I'm not a snitch. I won't tell anyone."

Roque gives him a look, sort of like he doesn't believe Jensen but mostly like he wants to beat Jensen's face in. Jensen stares at the ground and kicks at the dirt.

"I'm _not_ ," he repeats.

~*~

What Jensen wants— What he sort of wants— What he thinks he wants—

He doesn't know. But he catches Clay and Roque sometimes, and not just _them_ or not just only them in compromising situations, but the two of them, chilling out on the football field, Clay smelling like cigarette smoke, and Jensen can't figure where Clay picked up the habit.

He starts becoming invested, says, "You know if Roque catches you smoking, he's going to kick your ass."

"Gonna rat me out?" Clay asks as he flicks the match into the bushes.

"No, of course not, but Roque'll know. He'll walk in and look at you from across the room and just _know_ , and I don't want to catch any flack for it."

"One smoke isn't going to kill me."

They share a grin. "Hey, man, whatever you have to tell yourself at night."

And even that, as small as it is, it's what Jensen holds on to, and it ends too soon.

~*~

With all the pomp of graduation finished and Clay gone — gone for real, not just some holiday break — Jensen finds Roque in the spot, leaned against the wall, head tipped back, eyes shut. He knows that Roque knows that he's there, but they don't say anything. Jensen doesn't want to ruin Roque's meditation period. Or whatever the hell he's doing now that he's not busting Clay's ass about smoking on school grounds.

"Don't you have class?" Roque says without opening his eyes or moving anything but his lips. It's a freaky cool trick that Jensen can't get down for the life of him because he doesn't know how to be that still. Even now, he's tapping his foot, feels the jittery energy start traveling up, straight to his mouth now that he's — sort of — been given permission to speak.

"Not for—" Jensen laughs, shrugs, continues to tap his foot. "Well, you know."

"The answer is yes." Roque seems to unfurl? Detach? Come to life? Whatever. He starts moving, straightening, and turns his head to look at Jensen.

Jensen's mouth goes a little dry. He feels like now that Clay's gone, Roque's going to start busting his ass about crap. Like going to class. And not hacking into the school computers to give everyone a new screensaver that says in big, bold letters that Mr. MacNamara is a giant douche who sucks camel spit. It's animated and everything _and_ Jensen's suddenly pretty sure that he looks very guilty right now. Clear face, clear face, clear face, he tells himself.

"Go to class, Jensen. You can't afford any more demerits."

"Hey, I earned those fair and square," Jensen says, quirking a grin that is not at all guilty of anything.

Roque's eyes narrow, and Jensen tries his hardest not to start hyperventilating and spilling the beans. He can hold out. At least for the bright light in his face and the good cop, bad cop schtick. Oh. Damn. With Clay gone, that sort of falls apart. There's just bad-cop-persona-but-really-has-a-heart-of-gold Roque right now. This. This sucks.

"So what am I supposed to do when you bail on me, too?" Jensen asks, trying to make it sound light-hearted and flippant. He'd give Roque a playful jab to the ribs, but he's pretty sure that Roque has learned how to break someone's arm in five places. Not that Jensen's worried about that sort of thing. Roque's a good guy.

"Go to class."

Jensen laughs at Roque's deadpan. He knows Roque is serious as all get out, but it's still funny that he delivers it with the straightest face ever. Jensen waves a hand. "Yeah, yeah—"

His throat seals tight when Roque grabs his wrist and shoves him into the wall. He thinks: _oh, shit_ and _this is so hot_ at the same time.

"Uh."

"Don't fuck this up, Jensen. Go to class."

"I will," Jensen says hastily. He convulsively swallows. "I'll even pinky promise if you want me to, dude."

Roque nods, and Jensen can't help but make a face that he's sure is comedy gold.

"Uh. It was a joke. You really—"

"It's either that or we do it blood brother style."

Jensen still gets a little queasy at the sight of blood. "Pinky swear," he says and is glad his boner deflates a little.

Roque steps back, holds up his pinky, and Jensen tries really, really hard not to snicker or make a joke out of this. He hooks his pinky with Roque's, nods, and that's that. Except Roque doesn't let go.

"Swear."

"Yeah, okay." _Please don't break my pinky_ , Jensen thinks. "I swear that when you graduate, I will go to class and be a model citizen of the United States of America. Cool?"

Roque nods, and this time, lets Jensen go. Jensen tries not to rub his pinky. He rocks back on his heels, hands shoved into his pockets instead.

"So ... ."

Roque stares. And stares. Jensen huffs out a breath and nods.

"Okay, fine. Going to class. See?" Jensen starts walking backward. "I'm going. To class."

He doesn't intend to walk backwards the whole way, but it's really hard to turn away from Roque's stare. Jensen doesn't start walking normally until his heel hits the edge of the sidewalk and he almost falls on his ass. He flaps his arms to try to balance himself, but it's Roque who catches him and straightens him out.

"Be careful," Roque says, fingers tight around Jensen's forearm.

Jensen swallows. "Yeah, dude." He cracks a grin. "Want me to pinky swear on that one, too."

The corner of Roque's mouth lifts into a smile and Jensen silently calls victory on it. "It'd be useless."

"Hey, I take offense. I'm always careful."

"Only when you're doing something you shouldn't be."

Jensen does not silently give Roque point on that one. "Model citizen, remember?"

"Bullshit."

"You can't prove that."

"Yeah, I can." Roque leans in, the smile spreading to the other corner of his mouth. "You gloat in your sleep."

"Okay, _that_. Is really creepy. You sneak into the underclassmen dorms a lot, Roque?"

"Only to keep an eye on you."

Jensen blinks. He recovers quickly. "I'm flattered. You should start leaving chocolates on my pillow—" Jensen laughs at Roque's stony-faced expression. "I just want more obvious declarations of your love, dude. And clear evidence of your stalker tendencies."

"Class," Roque repeats.

"Point for me, though." Jensen grins and claps Roque on the shoulder. "I hope you told Clay you'll keep in touch. Don't do the stoic bullshit act. It makes everyone miserable."

"Class."

"Okay, okay. Going, going." And Jensen does.

What Jensen thinks military school — and Clay and Roque, too — was grooming him for was the Army.

He thinks about his family when he signs the contract, and after a look around, that's probably what a lot, if not all, the guys around here are thinking about. Jensen figures the rest are doing it for their country. After his stint in military school, he doesn't think there's exactly a well-defined line between the two.

He also didn't think telling his mom, "Mom, don't worry. They're going to help me pay for school, and I'll have enough money to help with the house and Liz. I'll be fine," was going to be a big deal.

But then the Gulf War happens, and Jensen's entire life becomes a very big deal.

**Author's Note:**

> Clay and Roque are in an established relationship and engage in sexual activities, but nothing explicit involves Jensen. Jensen's actions are limited to occasionally catching them in compromising situations and being aroused.
> 
> I also played fast and loose with everyone's ages in this fic. So handwave, handwave.


End file.
